


Like a Pewter Dirigible

by A_Diamond



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Anachronistic, Arranged Marriage, Blackmail, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Diamond/pseuds/A_Diamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hates working for Crowley, but circumstances have conspired to force him into the highest risk job he's ever undertaken: kidnapping the scion of powerful mining and banking giant Roman & Sons. Crowley plans to ransom Castiel Roman back to his family, and Dean doesn't really care what happens to the wealthy man after his part is over. But when things get complicated—and they always get complicated, which is why Dean doesn't <em>do</em> this—he might find himself having to admit that the situation isn't what it appeared to be. Maybe, just maybe, Castiel deserves something better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Pewter Dirigible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhWilloTheWisp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhWilloTheWisp/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at anything vaguely resembling steampunk, so please forgive any faux pas along that theme. Other than that, I hope this satisfies!

Dean hated working for Crowley. He was the worst sort of opportunistic oilslick, oozing his way into exchanges of favors and money and questionable goods, tainting even the most legitimate-looking deal with the unsavory. Dean had done jobs for Crowley before, sure, because Dean had been around and in the jack-of-all-minorly-illegal-trades business long enough that he'd done jobs for just about everyone, but this was different.

Usually, Dean worked on his terms. He took a job if he liked it, or he didn't if he didn't, and he could make that decision because he wasn't a desperate sucker. Usually, Dean stuck to small-time stuff: petty larceny, some smash-and-grabbing and grave robbery, maybe occasionally knocking a few heads together to accomplish something or other. Usually, Dean worked alone from start to finish.

Usually, Dean's little brother wasn't locked in an air raid bunker shaking through withdrawals from an ochre somnolence habit that had landed him thousands of certs in debt to Crossroads Crowley.

So it was that Dean found himself lurking around the corner from the conspicuous entrance to Roman & Sons, watching the set of heavy, lancet arch iron doors decorated with intricate tracery that were recessed behind several increasingly confined layers of moulded jambs. He found the whole setup unbelievably pretentious, but at least it matched the ostentatiousness of the rest of the structure. It looked more like a cathedral than the headquarters of a mining firm and bank, but given Roman's prominence in the Northern and Eastern Territories, maybe that was appropriate after all.

And that was why Dean was stuck there, waiting on the current lone representative of ‘& Sons’—a great grandson of the founding Roman, son of current head Dick Roman—to arrive for the day so that Dean could waylay his driver. When Castiel Roman left in the evening, Dean would take him to Crowley, Crowley would leverage hefty ransoms from both the father and the wife (Naomi Roman, née Adler, was wealthy in her own right even after merging her family's bank into the Romans’ business on the occasion of her nuptials), Roman would be reunited with his loved ones with no harm done, save for perhaps a few nights of meals and lodgings not up to his usual standard. Sam's debt would be cleared, and Dean would never have to set eyes on Crowley's smug face again.

At ten minutes before seven o’clock, an autocoach pulled up that could only belong to Roman. It arrived in a cloud of steam as thick as the winter fog off the coast, so heavy that Dean wondered the driver could navigate the narrow cobbled streets at all, and for all Dean's scorn at the unnecessary extravagance of it, he had to admit it sounded well-maintained. But the look of it, well, he shouldn't have expected anything less from the scion of the Roman family.

The body was all dark wood panels inside golden frames, etched and burnished and whatever else into fanciful patterns that mimicked the stonework of the building. The wheels must have visited the metallurgist twice daily, because they also appeared to be made, or at least plated, with gold, which stood no chance against the hard stones of the road. Velvet drapes in shades of brown and gold curtained off the interior of the carriage, hiding its illustrious occupant from the unworthy masses of pedestrians passing by, but soon enough the door opened and a man stepped down.

It was Castiel Roman. Dean recognized his strong features and dark hair not only from the questionable sketch Crowley had provided, but also from the artistically rendered portraits of the Roman family plastered all over their prolific printed advertisements: Dick Roman at the fore, with Castiel at his right hand and Naomi to the right of that. They all looked unbearably smug and content as they showed off whatever product or service was being displayed on Dick’s other side.

Roman the younger wore a suit of fine cloth, its quality evident in the deep, uniform shade of its coal black dye; lesser fabrics came off faded and ashen when they tried to achieve that color. Naturally, the trousers, waistcoat, and double-breasted jacket were cut and tailored perfectly to his form, though Dean was surprised to see him with neither coat nor hat, as would be expected of a gentleman of his position. In fact, he looked poorly put together indeed, lacking those necessities as well as gloves, and with his hair in an unforgivably wild mess instead of slicked back properly, as was custom with his ilk and his own habit, if the Roman & Sons flyers were to be believed.

All the better for Roman to be distracted today, it could only make Dean’s job easier for him to be less than his most alert. Dean watched while the man hurried inside—Roman was momentarily stymied by the decision between a handful of keys on a large ring—then cranked up his monowheel and followed the coach away, ready to waylay the driver and set the plot in motion.

  
  


Castiel exhaled a long sigh and agitated his unspeakably mussed hair in frustration, taking some measure of solace in the soothing scratch of his own blunt nails against his scalp. The peace lasted until he pulled his hand free and was forced to confront the mess of grease left from his styling wax. Making a face his father would berate him for if seen, he pulled out his handkerchief with the other hand and wiped his fingers as clean as he could before returning his attention to the report in front of him.

There had been another collapse in one of Roman & Sons’ potash mines, killing nearly three hundred workers, including two score women and over a dozen children. According to the overseer, the families of the dead would be evicted from the company housing so that new workers could move in. The callousness of dispossessing the recently widowed, orphaned, and childless rankled him deeply, but between the telegraph relay and the queue of clerks and minders through whose hands the news had passed before his, it was days old; the deed would have already been done.

Knowing it would be futile, Castiel nevertheless set the paper aside to discuss with his father the possibility of recompense, or at least some sort of assistance, for the tragedy-stricken families. He moved on to the next item, an assessment of the declining profitability of several gypsum mines with a suggestion to shift their focus to the ever-flourishing copper market. The idea was a good one, and if Castiel worked with care, he could probably arrange to have the former gypsum workers hired on at the new copper mines and plants with minimal fuss.

“Mr. Roman.” His secretary's voice was sharp, suggesting she had made at least one previous attempt to claim his attention. He looked up and found she was indeed holding back a scowl that would have been both disdainful and insubordinate if she allowed it past. She, as most of the few employees aware of the situation at Roman & Sons, had little enough patience for Castiel. She was also holding a capsule from the pneumatic chute system. “You are requested on the third floor.”

Restraining his own inappropriately revealing responses, Castiel gathered the portfolio he needed, thanked her, and waited for her to step out of the doorway so that he might answer his father's summons. She did so only after being sure he had noted her pointed glare at his catastrophic hair.

Alone in the expansive stained glass elevator, he smoothed his hair back as best he could and then had to wipe his hand once again, thoroughly ruining what remained of his kerchief’s integrity. He had just tucked it away, folded to contain the mess as much as was possible, when the floor shuddered to a stop and a three-tone chime announced his arrival. Two figures adjusted themselves from where they hunched over the desk dominating the room to look at him through the elevator gate’s latticed framework and he knew this meeting would not go well for him.

“Father. Naomi,” he greeted. His father smiled; Naomi didn’t. Despite the two decades between them, the conflicting expressions made them look like contemporaries.

“Castiel!” his father exclaimed as though his appearance were a surprise, and a pleasant one moreover. “Perhaps you can settle something for us. Naomi is concerned that you signed these directives that are causing us some difficulty. It seems that someone”—he stressed the word with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, an insultingly transparent pretense at disbelief—“instructed the quartermasters at each and every one of our collieries to issue the workers household rations of coal in addition to their wages.

“Now, I know it couldn’t have been you, because I remember when we got that pathetic petition from the Blackend River Mine. I recall that we received it, dismissed it for the ridiculous socialist notion that it was, and agreed that all the signatories ought to be dismissed from service immediately. So even though the response sent out was so absurdly contrary to the way that we do business that not a soul followed through on it without consulting me personally, I know it must have been someone else who forged my name on those letters. I know you wouldn’t dare defy me like that, Castiel.”

His father’s grin took on a cruel and accusatory edge which was all too familiar to Castiel, but he kept his face studiedly blank as he answered, “Of course not, Father.”

“Good. That’s good. Because those louses at Blackend River have all been removed from their positions and their homes, and will never work for Roman & Sons or any mine, plant, factory, bank, or Goddamned cobbler that does any business with us.”

Naomi stood impassive but scowling as his father strode around the desk and leaned into Castiel’s space, his scant advantage in height seeming to treble solely from the fury oozing out his pores and hissing out his breath. “And if you ever cross me again, I’ll see you locked in the lowest, darkest vault until you’re near dead from starvation and thirst. The only human contact you’ll have is when I visit every day to piss on you like the alley muck you are. When I’m quite satisfied that you’re mere hours away from a death far too good for you, I’ll turn you over to the constabulary to answer for your sins.”

Voice barely above a whisper and unspeakably more deadly than a shout, Castiel’s father pressed in closer and demanded, “Do you understand me, you disgusting shame upon my bloodline?”

Castiel said, “Yes, sir,” without a waver to his words, and nodded his head to his father and Naomi without blinking, and turned to regain the elevator with his spine straight, and waited until the last sliver of light from his father’s office had passed above the diamond-like cap of the ceiling before allowing the tremor in his chest to spread to his limbs. He caught himself against one brown and yellow pane, thankful for the opacity of the enclosure as the composure of battle flooded out of him in a rush. His weakness lasted only a moment; when the chime heralded his landing on the ground floor hallway leading to his modest office, he had regained himself once more.

The first thing he did upon reaching his desk was pick up the report about the potash mine and let it fall into the bin to be burnt, ignoring the gnawing ache in his gut at not even having attempted to see his plan through. He sat stiffly and resumed his assigned role: reading about decisions others had already made and choices he would never have. When the palm-sized automaton clock on his desk struck six, its tiny angel figurine gliding out from behind the pearlescent abalone gates of Heaven, he tidied his work into piles and stood.

The autocoach was waiting before the doors as it did each evening except Sunday. Castiel climbed into carriage and slumped wearily against the plush velvet bench, too out of sorts to even offer his customary greeting to his chauffeur, Uriel. The man never returned them—he despised Castiel, having been informed of his moral flaws by Castiel’s father upon his hire so that he could better prevent any scandal befalling the Roman name—but Castiel nevertheless felt compelled to perform the basic niceties. Rumbling over the uneven cobblestone streets with minimal jostling inside, the coach lulled him into a doze before long.

  
  


Roman’s lack of complaint about their unauthorized detour surprised Dean, but it certainly made things easier. He had a bottle of ether and a rag, but Crowley had refused to give him anything more quickly effective, claiming concern that he wouldn’t take due care with their hostage’s well-being. So when he made it all the way to the alley behind Crowley’s headquarters (a degenerate pub called the Cross Roads) without any disturbance from his passenger, he could only be grateful for the good luck.

Not luck, it turned out when he dropped down from the coachman’s seat and pulled open the door with two of Crowley’s nameless goons backing him up in case of a fight—not that the prince of industry was likely to put up much of one, but even in this underbelly, a man’s screams would only go ignored for so long. No, the ease of this kidnapping was all down to the complacent sloth of the aristocracy: Roman had slept through the entire thing.

He looked peaceful in slumber, the deep lines of the scowl he’d worn in and out of the building smoothed into a relaxed, almost handsome countenance and his mouth parted slightly on a slant nearly resembling a smile. Probably dreaming of his money, Dean thought with an internal snort. He pulled out his Collier revolving gun and his best dangerous grin and called, “Hey, Roman!”

The man stirred. His face drew together in a confused pout, still half asleep as he blinked a few times, then he focused on Dean—more specifically, the well-used flintlock Dean was pointing between his eyes—and he sharpened up right quick. He said nothing, so Dean moved on to the next stage of the plan.

“Hi there. Three things. Firstly, yes, you have been kidnapped. Secondly, I’m just the courier. I don’t call the shots and this is not my racket. Thirdly, that means I really don’t care if I have to kill you. My boss may have an interest in your continued breathing, but I could take it or leave it, so if you share his interest, you’ll shut up and cooperate. Sound good?”

Roman nodded, much to Dean’s delight; maybe the job wasn’t going to be quite as awful as he’d anticipated. “Outstanding. We’re going to go inside now. There might be people inside, but I promise you they don’t care about what’s happening. They’d just as soon shoot you as I would, so don’t count on any help from that front. You’re going to go in first, and I’ll be right behind you with this.” He waggled the revolver in a tight circle. “Go all the way to the bar, turn right, and go down the stairs. Crowley will take care of it from there.”

“I take it Crowley is the gentleman who orchestrated this event?” Roman’s question caught Dean by surprise as he stepped out of the carriage with no hint of fear beneath his steady grace. The man’s voice was deep and thoughtful, as assured as Dean had imagined it would be, but lacking the expected arrogance. It was a subtle difference, but if anything, he could hear a note of resignation, which confused him. Fear, shock, even anger he could understand; he’d rudely pulled Roman from the shelter of his privileged life and threatened perfectly casually to kill him. Other than seeming a bit sad, the man wasn’t upset, which in turn upset Dean.

“I said shut up,” he growled, shoving the barrel of his gun sharply into Roman’s back to urge him on. Obligingly, Roman didn’t speak again as followed Dean’s directions down to the basement of the pub. Dean kept an eye on the patrons as they passed, but as he’d predicted, none of them gave him or his hostage a second glance.

Crowley was waiting for them in the room at the bottom of the stairs, languid and smug in his throne-like chair. A large table stood several feet in front of him, but otherwise the space was bare He spread his arms in benevolent greeting, saying, “Gentlemen, welcome. Well,” he corrected with a smirk at Dean, “Gentleman and Winchester.”

“Mr. Crowley, I presume.”

Crowley shot Dean an annoyed look. Maybe he hadn’t wanted Roman to know who he was. Well, like so many other things, that wasn’t Dean’s problem—and Crowley had just named him, anyway, so he had no room to complain. The frown passed quickly, and Crowley performed a flourishing little mockery of a bow from where he sat. “Mr. Roman, it’s a pleasure. I trust my associate has explained the situation to you? Oh, do put it away, Winchester. I think our guest understands his position by now.”

Dean flashed Crowley a rude gesture as he holstered his Collier, while Roman answered, “In the most vague terms, yes. I am to be held captive, most likely for ransom.”

Crowley nodded. “I don’t know that I’d call that vague, it covers everything pretty well. The whole operation may take some time, though, getting everything arranged—it’s always a bigger to-do than you’d expect, trust me. So, make yourself comfortable and... Hm, there is a distressing lack of furniture down here. I had to have all the old things removed, they were rather, ah, soaked in blood. Winchester! Bring Mr. Roman down a chair, will you? And one for yourself, you’ll be playing nanny.”

Dean stared at him, mouth open in a protest he never got to voice. The look Crowley levelled at him promised trouble, and Crowley knew his weaknesses, which was how he’d gotten roped into this in the first place. Cursing Sam, all the while knowing he didn’t really mean it, Dean stomped up the stairs to play errand boy. Again.

  
  


Castiel felt the slight warmth at his back dissipate as the man, Winchester, pulled away from where he’d been pressed impolitely close and menacing. He didn’t look back as his original captor departed, but kept his eyes firmly on the arrogant mastermind of his predicament.

“Do you know who I am?” Crowley asked, relaxed against the high-backed chair that even Castiel’s father would have called excessively extravagant, particularly given the surroundings.

“I thought we’d established that, Mr. Crowley.” Castiel permitted a certain amount of careless annoyance to carry his words, an affect he’d heard from his father countless times. This man’s interest in him clearly related to Roman & Sons; there was no other reason for Castiel to draw attention. The longer he could keep up the pretense of mattering to the company, the longer he had to try and determine a way out that didn’t rely on the ransom.

Crowley just smirked wider. “That’s a no, then. I’m hurt that dear old Dad never mentioned me. See, me and Dickie had an arrangement, a partnership you might say. I followed through, but then he reneged on his end of the bargain. That upset me, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“So I am insurance that he will follow through on his commitment? Or do you expect me to accomplish his side of your deal on his behalf?”

“No, I’ve gotten what I needed from him all on my own. This is quite straightforward vengeance. I’ll not ruin him, nor your cold fish of a wife, but they’ll never cross me again.”

Castiel’s hope all but vanished, though he kept his voice steady as he asked, “How much will you be demanding for my return?”

“One hundred thousand certificates, from each of them.”

The number was high, though as Crowley said, not overly significant compared to the fortunes of his family members. Had it been his father at risk, or Naomi, they would gladly have paid for each other. For the sake of Castiel, however... “And if they will not pay it?”

With an easy laugh and not a moment’s hesitation, Crowley answered, “Well, I’ll kill you, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, I much prefer money to bodies I have to dispose of. However, as I said, your family has already crossed me once. There must be consequences, or else where would society be?”

“As you say,” Castiel agreed dryly as he heard Winchester clattering down the stairs towards them again, “it would be a shame if the world frowned upon murdering a man over his father’s slights against you.”

“Hey, who’s murdering what now?” Winchester protested, accompanied by several loud bangs as he maneuvered what Castiel presumed were the chairs through the doorway.

“You will be, if Mr. Roman’s family decides he’s not worth the trouble.”

“Like Hell I will!” Winchester dropped his burden and pushed passed Castiel. He got within feet of Crowley’s seat, hands clenched into tight fists, before stopping short and seeming to think better of physical intervention. Still, he all but shouted, “I didn’t sign up for murdering anyone, Crowley. In fact, I didn’t actually sign up for any of this, but I draw the line at killing for you.”

Crowley stood and anger turned his grin into a baring of teeth. “You don’t get to draw any lines here, Winchester. Unless you think you’ve hidden little brother away where I can never find him, and can keep both of you safe from me for the rest of your pathetic little lives, in which case you’re even more of a moron than I gave you credit for. So go pick up those chairs and sit your ass down before I change my mind about our deal.”

As Winchester tensed and obeyed, face pale and drawn in shame, Castiel considered this new information. Perhaps the man could be an ally, if he himself were being coerced into his role. On the other hand, given his obvious disdain for Castiel, that seemed an unlikely avenue of assistance; he was unlikely to risk his brother’s safety for Castiel’s, no matter how much he despised Crowley.

Expression at ease once more, Crowley turned his attention back to Castiel and said, “Sit, please. I’ll go prepare a missive to your loved ones, shall I?” As he left, he pulled closed a heavy wooden door Castiel hadn’t previously noticed at the base of the stairs. The sound of a bolt sliding home from the other side confirmed that they had been locked in.

He decided to try his luck, having very little to lose. “Mr. Winchester,” he began.

“Don’t talk to me,” the other man snapped. He drew his revolver and set it on the table before him with a pointed look at Castiel. “I don’t care what happens to you, even if that means I have to dump your corpse at Roman and Sons’ door myself. You’ve never had to work or worry a day in your life, so don’t expect some sympathy from me just because you’re finally realizing your money can’t protect you from the worst of the world.”

Castiel fell silent and stayed silent until Crowley returned, humming cheerfully. “It’s unlikely they will acquiesce to your demands,” he said softly, but Crowley just waved him off and picked up a book, falling back into his seat.

Then the three men waited, and nothing further was said.

  
  


When the telegram arrived, passed from the official courier through several intermediaries before being delivered to the barman of the Cross Roads, who brought it to the basement room personally, it read only: We decline.

Crowley scowled at Roman, who returned the look with weary resignation. “I did attempt to prepare you for this eventuality, Mr. Crowley,” he pointed out. “I am not worth to my father or spouse even a tenth of what you demand, though I suspect”—here his face turned pained—“that they would offer you up to half of your price to be rid of me permanently.”

Crowley’s look morphed into something speculative that Dean really did not approve of. “And what is it you could possibly have done, Mr. Roman, to inspire not only apathy but outright hostility from your nearest and dearest?”

“Nearest, perhaps, but certainly not dearest. No, they much prefer each others’ company to mine; both personally and professionally.”

Dean offered the man a look of sympathy, because it was one thing to be indifferent to one’s spouse and quite another to be cuckolded by one’s own father, but Roman waved it away.

“I am too soft in the head and the heart for business, either one would agree without coercion. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they take the opportunity of my apparent demise to announce Naomi’s condition, then appoint her as executor until the bastard is of sufficient age and temperament.”

“Naomi is with child, and it’s Richard’s?” Crowley queried. “That’s a most scandalous accusation.”

“Only a scandal if it reaches the public, and why should it?”

“Oh, I’m sure it might.” A smirk stretching his paunchy face, Crowley ordered Dean, “Watch him,” and departed, locking the door from the outside again.

They sat in silence, both staring at the darkened and dented wood barring them in, until Dean recalled his own father’s by-blow, dying alone and so young, and felt compelled to demand, “You would really deny the child? Even if you have no affection for Naomi, surely there’s a chance it’s yours.”

Roman’s eyes met his and held his gaze for long breaths as the man seemed to search him for something, then his mouth quirked slightly and he looked away, down towards his hands. “No, I would not do him harm for his mother’s sins. Little enough difference whether he has my name or my father’s in the end. But short of an immaculate miracle, the child cannot be mine; Mrs. Roman and I have never shared a marriage bed. Pardon my frankness,” he said with a flickering glance towards Dean, “but you did ask.”

Dean allowed, “I did.” And then, unable to restrain it, “Never, really?”

“Truly. It cannot surprise you by now to learn that ours was not a love match. Father wanted access to Adler Bank and Naomi wanted to guarantee her continued place in the business after her father died. As a single woman, it would have been impossible.”

“So let them marry,” Dean scoffed, “if they’re going to take the advantages of matrimony anyway.”

“Then she’d be powerless again when he died. I’m a much better prospect, and far more controllable.” Roman shook his head with a wry smile and Dean bristled at the condescension in his tone.

“You’ve no one to blame but yourself for being upright as a paving stone. You’re a man grown, with assets and education and connections that any of my acquaintances would commit many sins for. Were you not so desperate to stay so high and mighty above even the well-to-do, you could have been free of them both. But I should know better than to expect anything from your kind, greedy cowards the lot.” Any compassion Dean had felt for the husband of an adulterous wife was gone, evaporated at the revelation that Roman had known precisely what his future would hold were he to wed Ms. Adler. He had gone forward with it, so clearly he had believed the benefits outweighed the costs; to change his mind now was further evidence of his poor character.

Roman slumped in his chair, looking far more empty and vulnerable than Dean would have thought possible in his fine, if rumpled, clothes. “Coward I will own, for more reasons than one, but fear of social decline is not what holds me back. To fade into obscurity, with nothing to my name, would be a blessing.”

Dean pondered on this, trying to maintain his facade of anger even as it faded into confusion, all the while damning the man for constantly piquing his curiosity instead of being predictably arrogant or meek. “What has you so timid as to allow your imprisonment via nuptials, then?”

“Do you know, Mr. Winchester,” Roman began in a voice soft as a dying man's confession, “what happens to those men convicted of—”

The heavy bolt locking them in slid loudly within its ill-sized casing and Roman fell silent, looking expectantly towards the door. Crowley slithered in with a smirk that Dean didn’t like one bit. When he ordered, “Winchester, out,” Dean liked that even less.

“What do you mean—”

“I mean OUT!” Crowley's temper, as it was wont to do, flared and settled in the blink of an eye. He was smiling again by the time he continued, “Mr. Roman and I have important matters to discuss, and your presence is a hindrance. If you want to be useful, ready the balloon. We’ll be going up shortly.”

Dean’s displeasure grew. He hated the hot air balloon, hated airships in all their forms, no matter who tried to convince him with what evidence that their failure rate was wildly exaggerated in adventure stories and street-corner prophecies of the End Times. On the ground, whatever catastrophe may befall him, he could fight and plan and get out of it; thousands of feet up, in a plummeting zeppelin or a blimp with an envelope caught fire, there was no escape.

Holding back a shudder only because he knew that Crowley would delight in it, he slammed the door loudly open and closed again on his way out.

  
  


“You understand, I still have to kill you,” Crowley said as soon as they were alone, sounding almost regretful.

“You’ve explained your opinion of the necessity,” Castiel answered carefully.

“I thought you’d like to know that it won’t be in vain; you’ll do some very public damage to your esteemed relatives with your suicide note. Due to your broken heart, you’ll name your wife a whore and your father a scoundrel. A bit of comfort for you, however cold.”

A chill crept its way down Castiel’s back, freezing his spine and curling menacingly about his kidneys. “I have accepted your desire to murder me, though I would of course prefer avoid that outcome. However, I assure you I have no intent to commit that sin, much less do so in a public and humiliating manner.”

Crowley strode to his throne and sank into it with the same satisfied smile he’d worn for most of their interactions. His eyes trailed over Castiel in manner hungry without being vulgar; his judgment was not lewd, but greedy. “No, you prefer your sins to be private. Intimate, one might say. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Even if Dick hadn’t told me when he hired me to kill Zachariah Adler, you weren’t half so discreet as you thought you were three years ago. Your gentleman caller was more than happy to sell the information to me the next morning.”

“If you’re aware of all these things, you should know it provides you very little extra leverage. I’m to die either way, and my faults with me, so why should it encourage me to become complicit?”

“Because, little prince, if you don’t cooperate, I won’t kill you. I have reason to believe you’re familiar with my next threat, so perhaps I needn’t say it.”

Castiel heard footsteps behind him, but a calm sort of numb had overtaken him and he could not bring himself to care whether it was Winchester or some other lackey come to witness his shame. “Perhaps,” he answered, voice steady, “perhaps not. Is your plan to lock me away, visit only to condemn and degrade me, and once you’ve grown bored of my abasement, report me to the constabulary for the unforgivable crime of homosexuality? If not, you are far less creative in your blackmail than my own blood, and I confess myself unimpressed.”

Winchester swore behind him, but Crowley looked bored. “I’m sure I can manage worse. Write the letter, Mr. Roman.”

Closing his eyes, Castiel let the defeat flow into him, an onrushing tide of helpless rage. His sins were few, he thought, yet so deep as to drown him while men like Crowley and his father prospered. So be it, at least his suffering was to end.

He vaguely heard Winchester and Crowley arguing as he sat at the table and took up the pen, but their words did little more than buzz in his ringing ears, so shell-shock focused was he. He didn’t realize Winchester had left again until he completed writing out his grievances, as he believed Crowley would approve of them, and looked up to see the man standing beside him to read over his shoulder.

“Good man,” Crowley said with no trace of condescension, patting him briskly on the shoulder and taking the suicide note. “Winchester is waiting upstairs. Tell him his debts are cleared and the balloon is his, much as he’ll enjoy that. I’ve sent word to a man he knows, Frank Devereaux, to assist the two of you and his bison of a brother with setting up new lives on the West Coast. It’s a less civilized land, but I’m sure you’ll adjust.”

Castiel could do naught but stare, mouth agape.

“What, you actually thought I was going to kill you? Well,” Crowley chuckled to himself, “of course you did, that was rather the point. No, Mr. Roman. I’m a terrible man, to be sure, but not completely soulless. I required the proper strength of desperation in your farewell, but it’s a simple enough matter to find an already dead body matching your description well enough. Dick and Naomi will suffer, I’ll be happy, and I’ll wager that you’ll be much happier too, out from under them. Things are wilder in the West, in more ways than one.”

Still stunned, Castiel allowed Crowley to guide him to his feet and send him up the stairs with a handshake and a, “Best of luck, really.”

Winchester was indeed waiting, spectacularly agitated. As soon as he saw Castiel, he started rambling, “Look, I didn’t know—I’m sorry, okay? I thought you had such a great life and I was... But it doesn’t matter, I’m getting you out of this. Okay? I swear, I’m not going to let that son of a bitch—”

“He’s not,” Castiel interrupted once he was able to gather his thoughts. “It was a bluff, he’s letting us go. Me, but also you and your brother.” He relayed the rest of what Crowley had told him, which left Winchester looking as surprised as he had been.

“I guess that’s it, then.” Winchester’s voice was soft with disbelief. “We just pick up Sammy and…”

“You don’t have to allow Crowley to exile you,” Castiel hurried to reassure him. “You have ties here; I can’t ask you to abandon those for my sake. I can find my own way out of the city.”

Eyes bright and cheeks flushing slightly, Winchester gripped his upper arm. “No, you don’t understand. We wanna go, we’ve been wanting to since—since ever, more or less. Our old man was gonna start up a cattle ranch, only he died before we could go. Crowley’s not exiling me, he’s giving me a chance. Come on, we should go before he changes his mind.”

  
  


Dean lifted his hat and mopped the sweat from his forehead with a tattered and discolored handkerchief before dropping the brim back down to block out the sun. It was their second summer out in the no-man's-land of the Southwestern Territory, but the same time the year before they’d still been building the house and bartering labor for livestock. This year, they were established enough that Dean spent most of his time out in the sun with the cattle, the sheep, and the small stand of citrus trees Castiel had insisted upon. He loved every moment of it.

Cas, who had taken three months to agree to the nickname, had also taken three months to be convinced that Dean and Sam didn’t resent him or want him to leave. He had helped them build the house, all three bedrooms of it (he wasn’t accustomed to hard labor, but it hadn’t stopped him from hauling around just as much timber as the Winchesters, and he was surprisingly adept at the more delicate wood- and metalwork), and claimed it to be repayment for their kindness as he tried to bid them farewell.

Sam had taken offense and argued, pointing out the fallacies in Cas’s logic and the benefits to him sticking around. Dean had just grinned and promised to hunt him down and kidnap him again. Castiel had stayed.

Sam rode up, catching Dean by surprise. Even though he hadn’t been expecting his brother, he still should have heard his approach. Sam’s grin told him the subterfuge had been intentional, and they goodnaturedly attempted to shove one another off their horses with bumps of their shoulders for a few moments before Sam said, “Cas wants you at the house, he’s got something to show you. I’ll take a turn out here.”

Puzzled but curious, Dean took his leave and made his way back to the larger of the two structures on the ranch. The smaller one was where Cas spent most of his time, fiddling with wood carvings and clockwork gears and thin metal rods, the talent for which he’d discovered recently, but the love for which he’d confessed was lifelong. In large part he made clocks, some simple, some more elaborate, which sold surprisingly well whenever they went to a market day. Perhaps if they were to go more often, demand would lower, but they only bothered with every fourth or fifth, not desiring so much interaction with the outside world now that they had everything they needed.

Sometimes, though, Castiel played around with automaton toys and complex mechanisms of cranks and gyroscopes that continued spinning long after the hand turning them had ceased. He’d been working on something for weeks, refusing to let Dean or Sam into his workshop, smiling with barely restrained excitement every time they questioned him.

Cas was waiting on the porch, his white shirt rolled to his elbows and covered in smudges. He still wore the waistcoat Dean had first seen him in, though it had been mended many times in the interim and the jacket was a long-forgotten casualty of their relocation. He was flushed with delight, as alive and proud as Dean had ever seen him, and all thought of his mysterious invention fled Dean’s mind.

No sooner had he dismounted than he sprang up the steps in a single leap, coming to a halt well inside the space polite company left one another. When Cas’s smile grew, tentative but pleased, Dean knew he had the right of it and wrapped an arm around the other man’s waist to pull him even closer.

Their first kiss was gentle and soft, ending with a happy sigh from Dean and a quiet, “Oh,” from Cas.

The ones that came after were just as perfect, though rather less innocent.


End file.
